


The Grace of Him on a Divan

by Garden_Beast



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alpha!Sherlock, Criminal Network, Criminal Networking, Emotional Abuse, Gen, How I Presume it would work in this fucked-up world, M/M, Omega!John, Omegaverse, Physical Abuse, Plot Fic, Sexual Abuse, but a world building omegaverse, in so many ways this is not a fun fanfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-27 17:43:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6293737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garden_Beast/pseuds/Garden_Beast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is inching closer to the enigma that is Jim Moriarty, whereas John Watson can't get away from him-- bonded as he is to the psychopath. </p><p>Both of them manage, somehow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Intellectual Obsession

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PrettyArbitrary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyArbitrary/gifts), [bobross](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobross/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Odalisque](https://archiveofourown.org/works/472501) by [bobross](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobross/pseuds/bobross), [PrettyArbitrary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyArbitrary/pseuds/PrettyArbitrary). 



He had scoured through what felt like terabytes of information: Moriarty’s schooling, his university years, his semester abroad in Abu Dhabi; Sherlock knew his mother’s maiden name’s origins in Poland and had tracked down his father’s centuries-long history in Ireland. Prior to his disappearance during his final year of university, there was nothing about James Moriarty’s life that was unknown to him. His friends, family, enemies, acquaintances; he’d solved decades-old murders from when the prodigious young Moriarty had worked through his own social network, and yet the man’s disappearance left  _ nothing _ . No information. No evidence. Jim Moriarty had been a perfect student at Cambridge, studying computer science--  _ everything  _  about his life was normal, boring dull, aside from his moonlighting as a serial killer, and yet-- 

 

When he disappeared, he did so entirely. 

 

Sherlock twitched in his chair. Thinking.  _ Thinking. _

 

He had to have begun the very first stages of his criminal empire at the time. There was no other way around it: he wouldn’t otherwise have the resources to disappear so entirely, without a single trace or lead. There was nothing of him, halfway through his last semester at university; nothing from the CCTV around the campus (and Sherlock had pored through every last horrendous second of the footage, armed with nothing but a memory of his face and outright  _ obsession _ ), nothing with his face on it, nothing with even a hint of James Moriarty,  _ nothing. _

 

James Moriarty must have had some slip up on his criminal record (literally or metaphorically) and Sherlock Holmes was determined to find it. 

 

___

 

The Scotland Yard paid for James Moriarty’s face to be plastered along billboards all throughout London; all they had was a grainy police sketch, courtesy of Sherlock’s description from their little tete-a-tete at the pool, but nevertheless they had it all over London. 

 

Everywhere, Jim Moriarty’s beady eyes stared at the London populace, thin-lipped smirk looming down at them. Where Sherlock Holmes walked, Moriarty’s eyes followed, and in a way the whole endeavor felt like a concession: just by begging the public for information, Sherlock was losing the game. 

 

Still, they received phone calls. Emails. Leads. 

 

Sherlock Holmes travelled from London to Ireland on hearsay, and back from Ireland to London on nothing more than word of mouth. He scoured the United Kingdom, the Isles, villages tucked away behind pristine rolling hills, and back alleys of Dublin; still, Moriarty, even word of him, evaded him. Like a wisp of smoke, Sherlock Holmes simply couldn’t pin the man down; word of him was through a friend-of-a-friend, always with so many connections, missed and obscured. Sherlock found himself only growing more entangled in the macabre web that was James Moriarty, and it would only be when his vision swam and his knees went weak that he would realise that he hadn’t fed his transport in weeks. 

 

The Yard was growing afraid of him, that much was obvious. He had lost weight, grown thin and waifish, and skulked around the glass building like a spectre. Weeks in, Lestrade would say, placing a plate of chips at the side table that was fast becoming Sherlock’s unofficial desk-- “Why not take a break from this?” 

 

He might as well have spoken gibberish. Sherlock only narrowed his eyes. Rolling his own, Lestrade continued on, “You’ve not had a decent night’s sleep in ages. Why not take a few days to relax, get some sleep, and then--” 

 

“I don’t need  _ sleep. _ ” Did no one understand? His transport was secondary; Jim Moriarty was on the loose, free to flaunt his power and intelligence in front of Sherlock and the rest of the world, ruling it from some hidden room somewhere-- Sherlock gritted his teeth. “I need a half decent lead and at least  _ somewhat _ functional means of getting them. Or is the concept of even finding  _ clues  _ to a criminal too far out of your depth?” Lestrade went tense, nostrils flared-- 

 

And Sherlock was sent home with an unofficial order to get a good night’s sleep and eat a king’s feast before returning. 

 

Forced out of the Yard, and with few other options (the homeless network was scouring all of London for clues, for hearsay,  _ anything _ ) Sherlock considered his rapidly decreasing array of options: he couldn’t continue using the Yard’s resources, nor did he have any need of Saint Bart’s Hospital at the moment. Yes, he could return to the flat, but that meant explaining to his landlady why he hadn’t paid the rent in several months (and, of course, the inevitable eviction), as well as meeting with the new flatmate-- no, he’d left a week ago after the incident with the severed head. No flatmate at all, then. 

 

Well. If he made it past the foyer, he could stay the night in his own flat. Funny that. 

 

He made his way home, already considering the mind map of images he was going to set up in the sitting room: images of the boy Moriarty had killed at the tender age of eleven, images of the many,  _ many  _ omega trafficking groups he’d puppeteered from the sidelines, many snapped quickly by Interpol operatives working in Bangladesh, Hong Kong, Monaco, Paris, Berlin, Seoul; where was the connection? How did he contact and control so many groups, so many human-- let alone drug-- trafficking operations? Where did he fit into this? How did he avoid leaving a single  _ trail _ ? 

 

Already home, (when did he walk home?) shuffling images about on the floor next to the coffee table, Sherlock Holmes continued trudging his way through the mystique that was Jim Moriarty. There were stretches of time where he simply carded through the information in his mind, closing his eyes, letting himself sift through the information…

 

He was horizontal, and the light filtering in from the windows indicated that it was afternoon.  _ Shit.  _

 

He pulled himself up and off of the floor, squeezing his eyes shut to regain his bearings.  _ Moriarty. Omega trafficking rings. Drug trafficking--  _ he and Scotland Yard had already interrogated traffickers from multiple countries (thank you, Interpol), including the London-based ones-- they’d interviewed the alphas caught making purchases, yes, but they’d never made any attempt to--  _ stupid!  _

 

Omega victims. How could he have overlooked them? He had actually bought into the vapid, doe-eyed stereotype, like the rest of the global population. Had he sunk so low? 

  
No. No use worrying now: Sherlock texted Lestrade, forcing himself to his feet-- he needed to eat, he realized, pulling through a vertiginous spell-- and grabbing a fresh crumpet from the pile that were left on his dining room table. He threw his coat around his shoulders, leaving the catastrophe of his flat behind him. 

 

___

 

Not a single omega. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, turning to Lestrade in the chair of his makeshift desk. “What?” 

 

Lestrade ran a hand through his hair, repeating himself, “Not a single omega. We don’t have any in our database. We didn’t interview the victims or ask them for their identification. We thought they were--” Incapable of giving it, too distracted by the thought of freedom to contemplate their burgeoning new life inside a government-run facility, too intimidated by the alpha and beta police forces, too overwhelmed by their circumstances, to weak and fragile and dumb and  _ omega, _ Sherlock supplied silently, seething. “It wasn’t our business, not in our jurisdiction-- they were to be retained in facility, receive therapy there. The Omega Ministry was adamant, and we couldn’t just go against our superiors--” Sherlock had stopped listening. 

 

Sherlock clenched and unclenched his fist in rapid succession. His voice was low and threatening when he came to the conclusion, “So we have to go through every single omega facility to--”   
  
“We can’t just go into an omega faci--” 

 

“We don’t a have a choice, do we?” He stood from his chair, already pacing through the room, “We have to call every single facility, ascertain which omegas came from trafficking rings-- and gain access to  _ multiple  _ facilities to interview them.” Mycroft didn’t even have access to facilities, as restricted as they were to obstetricians, geneticists, physical therapists, biologists, etcetera; even menial labour required an extensive background check, not to mention the inevitable facial recognition software installed in every single hallway-- 

 

“This isn’t even my bloody jurisdiction!” Lestrade sighed, leaning back into his chair. “You do realise this is just extra work for me, on top of London’s murders?”  His whining went ignored. 

 

There was no way around it. They’d have to… “How long does it take to request entrance into a facility? For national security?” Sherlock tried, turning to Lestrade. A second defeat, this time by the English government. Automatically, Sherlock knew that it would take longer than he’d hoped: Lestrade began to shake his head glancing down-- “No, don’t answer that. I’ll have it done.” He texted Mycroft, citing ‘national emergency.’ In its own way, a third defeat: relying on the monolith that puppeteered England from the background. 

 

Within seconds, he received a response. Grinning, he turned his mobile to Lestrade. “We should have it within three hours, then.” 

 

Sherlock gave himself a celebratory spin on his stolen office chair. 

 

___

 

He had never been inside an omega facility; they were exclusive, only available to alphas with omega-ownership licenses (highly difficult to obtain, usually requiring costly renovations to one’s property as well as several weeks’ training) and the occasional expert looking to write another article on omega reproduction, weaponization-- the list went on. 

 

So when Sherlock Holmes found himself sat next to Lestrade, being driven through a slew of gates near Essex, each one of them more or less difficult to get through, requiring higher and higher levels of restriction to admittance (making for a total of a ridiculous  _ eighteen _ ), he had to admit his surprise. Was a highly sensitive subspecies of human being kept in ghettos? 

 

Ah. Of course not. Past the seventeen-times redundant eighteenth gate,  _ there  _ Sherlock saw what he had come to expect: at least an acre of small rolling hills topped with clusters of trees, flower gardens. Paraphernalia of the dull, domestic lifestyle omegas were bred to live, topped off by the large cement building towering over the clusters of foliage. On closer inspection (and Sherlock always inspected closely), there were anomalies from the picture-perfect image: not a single person roamed the hills or tended to the gardens. Parking in a gravel lot and stepping out of their car, Sherlock listened for the typical sounds of pristine nature, for bird calls and the hum of insects. Nothing. 

 

Just the sound of a soft breeze. 

 

“Bit creepy, innit?” Lestrade offered, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking about. Sherlock hummed in response, before beginning what looked to be a quarter-mile walk to the only available place of human civilization.    
  
“Coming?” 

 

The entirety of the ten minute walk was passed in silence. From the trees overhanging the trail to the building, to the two men speeding down it, the only sound available to them was their breathing and the crunching of their feet on loose gravel. 

 

It was easy enough to get inside: the doors themselves were automatic (“Bloody should be after  _ eighteen  _ admittance permits,” Lestrade joked. He didn’t get the polite chuckle he was obviously hoping for.) and the receptionists had been expecting them. All that was required was signing a few non-disclosure agreements, slapping a patch of some sort onto both of their necks, and walking down a long sterile hallway to a windowed room, the interior visible from the hallway. Walking in, Sherlock observed that the receptionists remained where they were, watching them through the window. 

 

Inside was a young man, barely the age of twenty. He was small, thin, with doe eyes and short brown hair, the perfect image of a fragile young omega. Along with him came a scent roughly equivalent to a punch in the gut; sweet and almost cloying, nearing the man was like entering a miasma of potential sweet nothings. “Right,” Sherlock began, pinching at his nose and squeezing his eyes shut. “Tell us--”    
  
“Obviously we’re not here to hurt you,” Lestrade began, elbowing Sherlock. “We just have some questions about your experience, ah…” He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket, “Now, I’m Gregory Lestrade, and this is Sherlock Holmes. We just want to know, well, about what happened six months ago. We want to know about the people you met, the things you saw when you were in captivity. We just have some questions.” They sat down at the chairs apparently set out for them in the aseptic white room, facing the boy. “Can we get your name?” Lestrade asked, voice soft, while Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

 

There was a moment of silence while the boy rubbed at his arms and glanced out toward the receptionists, “I’m Eddy.” His voice was high and delicate, a blatant affectation. Wasn’t he in his twenties? 

 

“Right, Eddy,” Lestrade soldiered on, “Can you tell us--” 

 

“Tell us about anyone interesting from while you were in captivity. Your caretakers, the people who gave you food-- anything that comes to mind.” Sherlock leaned forward, elbows on his knees and chin on his hands, listening and watching intently for an answer, for any potential lie he could catch in the boy’s face. 

 

Eddy was suitably unnerved. He ducked his head down, staring at the floor. Rolling his eyes, Lestrade took back the baton, continuing, “Ignore him. Sherlock here’s just trying to get information.” He leaned forward, eyes playful, “And just between you and me, he’s a bit shit with these witness statements.” 

 

Sherlock reeled back, enraged;  _ clearly  _ he could hear their conversation. Still, Lestrade’s little explanation eased the man somewhat: his lips quirked, and he pushed a tuft of hair behind his ear. “I--” he paused, glancing again at the receptionists. “I, ah. That is--” he gulped while Sherlock rolled his eyes: this was going to be excruciating. “I only met a few people. Mostly other omegas.” 

 

...And? Was this whole hour-long drive just an exercise in listening to fruitless witnesses? 

 

Eddy glanced back up at Sherlock, curling into himself, “But I saw some people, the people who fed us. They were strong, and tattooed, and, um.” He looked off, fingers digging into his hands. “There was an omega with them. Who, ah, who worked for them. Ordered them about, told them off when they were too rough.” 

 

Both Sherlock and Lestrade leaned forward, fascinated. An omega leader? 

 

“He…” the omega bit at his lip, blatantly uncomfortable, “He didn’t come often. Only one--once or twice. He looked at us, m-made sure we were safe. Fixed up cuts, made sure we d-didn’t get infections.” He paused, eyes softening, “He was nice.” 

 

“Did he tell you his name?” Lestrade asked.    
  
Eddy shook his head. “But he was blond. He had-- had--” Eddy squeezed his eyes shut, before chuckling a bit-- “A big nose? Lots of scars.” 

 

A scarred omega member of an omega cartel. Incredible. 

 

Lestrade pulled out a pen and scribbled it on the paper from his pocket, before stuffing it back into his coat. “Is there anyone else that was memorable to you?” Naturally they’d ask the other omega witnesses about this one. 

 

The continued for several hours, going through every single excruciating moment of the boy’s captivity: slowly but surely they gained his trust, listened through the frankly horrendous stories of omegas being beaten (“But only bruised,” Eddy clarified, “They couldn’t have scars or that would lower their price in the market.”) their legs tied together to trap them in their compounds, their eyes and ears covered; sleep deprivation tactics, light deprivation, light saturation-- the list went on. 

 

By the time they had left the boy to see the next omega, Lestrade was pale in the face. “Jesus Christ,” he ran a hand through hair, “That was awful.” Sherlock only followed the receptionists in silence to their next witness, leaving the DI to catch up. 

 

___

 

The next omega was simply-- different. Her eyes narrowed upon seeing the detectives, and she sat up straighter in her seat, her blue-black hair shifting against her dark skin. 

 

When they walked in, then-- into a room completely identical to the one in which they’d interviewed Eddy before: same white walls, same transparent window, same lighting-- her eyes only flicked up, and she said, slumping in her seat, “About time.” 

 

Sherlock grinned at the child-- fifteen, this time-- striding over to his designated chair to the left of Lestrade, skipping the preamble. “Tell me about your caretakers, Miss--” 

 

“Janna.” Her voice was lighter now, and she sat up just a touch straighter.    
  
“Right. And you were--”    
  
“You came here two years ago, correct?” Lestrade cut in, pulling out his scrap of paper.    
  
“Correct.” She looked both of them in the eyes, the polar opposite of the boy from before.  

 

“I see…” Lestrade glanced down at his scrap, before continuing, “My name is Gregory Lestrade, and this man here is Sherlock Holmes. We’re detectives trying to stop omega cartels,” Janna’s brow quirked, “and we want to know about--” 

 

“To be honest, Mister Lestrade, I wasn’t close with any of my caretakers-- they gave us food, water, and we ate it. Most of the time it was just a hand through a small window.” 

 

Lying. She was lying. Her eyes glanced away, her body language shifted, and Sherlock pounced. “No, that’s not right. You knew one of them-- some of them, Janna?-- well enough to keep them from us.” Sherlock leaned forward, eyes excited with the hunt: what was she hiding? Could it be the omega? How were he and Moriarty connected? Obviously the omega was one of the higher-ups, but could he be connected to Jim directly? 

 

Janna went quiet, staring with flared nostrils down at the cement floor. She knew something. 

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her voice, now that Sherlock had broken her veneer of jaded worldliness, was higher, somehow more fragile. After a moment of silence, “I just--” 

 

“Who are you hiding, Janna?” They had gained her trust, her favor, her fealty, in some way-- “We aren’t going to hurt them.” Bald-faced lie. Still, the girl’s eyes went wide, any trace of skepticism gone. “We just need to know a name, a description-- we only want at the ones who hurt you. Anyone else, we just want safe. Okay?” 

 

She went quiet. Her eyes squeezed shut and she curled around herself, as if battling her own conscience. “We won’t hurt them,” Sherlock promised again, leaning forward: this time she’d tell him. This time they’d have a lead,  _ something  _ to go off of-- 

 

“His name is John.” The silence was broken, finally. 

 

“Does John have a last name?” Lestrade tried, voice gentle. Janna only shook her head, face twisted up in shame. “Can you describe him for us?” 

 

“He--” she bit her lips closed together, hands covering her face. 

 

“We won’t hurt him,” Sherlock repeated for the umpteenth time-- honestly, it depended upon what he knew. 

 

She lowered her hands, shaking, “He’s-- he’s, ehm.” They leaned forward, fascinated. They’d have a lead of some sort, at the very least a description of another member of Moriarty’s web-- “He’s omega. Blonde. He--” She pointed at her arms, at her left shoulder, “He has a lot of scars.” 

 

Both detectives sat there, speechless. 

 

___

 

They knew that ‘John’ was blond and scarred and omega, with a ‘large nose’-- although that was subjective. He had worked with no fewer than two of their interviewed omegas in two completely separate trafficking rings, which meant-- somehow-- that he was involved with the higher echelons on crime. How, though? To whom was he connected? 

 

He was parsing through, oh, weeks’ worth of information at his makeshift desk by Lestrade’s office, memorizing each and every name: he was searching through travel documents, courtesy of Interpol, from train companies, plane companies, barely-legal bus companies that had gone through Madrid, Spain, and Hong Kong, China in the weeks before the interviewed omegas were trafficked to London and caught. Someone who fit the timeline, a white man with a British accent-- information teased from the omegas through days of interviews, re-asking questions, tedious police policy-- hundreds of useless,  _ useless _ names scrolled past his eyes on the computer screen. Anyone who showed up twice within the several-week span.  _ Anyone.  _ He’d have his suspect, he’d have Moriarty, he’d  _ finally  _ catch up to that madman, defeat him once and for all-- “--Bloody hell, Sherlock, we have to  _ get going! _ ” Pardon? 

 

Sherlock turned to Lestrade as he pulled on his coat, yelling, “There’s an omega trafficking bust on, they’ve found a whole twenty omegas holed up somewhere on the East End, we--” Oh. Unimportant. He turned back to his work, resuming focus,  _ focus _ , “We might get another  _ lead _ , Sherlock! For God’s sake!” Lestrade had the audacity to shake at his shoulder, and  _ that  _ got Sherlock’s attention.    
  
“Lestrade.” His voice was ice. 

 

“Finally! Come on, we need to--” 

“The chances of Moriarty, or even one of his higher-ups being at the actual scene of the crime is infinitesimal. The actual smugglers likely don’t even know who’s paying them, let alone anyone along the chain command. If, by some chance, someone of importance  _ is _ caught, then you may inform me. In the meantime--” He swirled his seat back to his desk, hunching forward and examining names and times and flight numbers, already too absorbed in the work to finish his sentence. 

 

After some initial fumbling, the office went blissfully quiet. Sherlock was left to his own devices, eyes on the computer: Blane DeLeone, Pierre LeCache, Sierra Michaels, Jonathan Junge, Gabriel Ben-Gurian, Sahim Abu-Layla, Qiao Qiu, Gau Yubi, Peter Dobrev…

 

A total of five suspects. “Lestrade!” Sherlock called, pulling himself out of his mind palace, and back into…

 

A completely dark room. The only light in the room was the white of his computer screen.

 

Fine, then-- he’d make the necessary calls himself. He knew the majority of them were in the EU at the moment, he could have the Court of Justice order their arrest within minutes-- all he needed to do was make a quick call to Interpol. 

 

___

  
It would be three hours and nineteen vicious screaming matches with Interpol later, when Sherlock Holmes would finally read a gloating text from Lestrade, glowing in the dark of the room: “Come to LLC 13. I think we’ve found ‘John.’”


	2. Junge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's had enough dealings with Jim's many behaviors to know what to expect.
> 
> Warning: This chapter includes explicit sexual violence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is dedicated my friend Andre, for listening to my woes as I wrote this chapter.

He could regain his own balance, when Jim was gone on business. Wake up before six, take suppressants and scent inhibitors, go on a jog, grab a coffee, head to the shooting range. Rinse and repeat. John had his own sort of homeostasis, only forced awry when Jim was around. He was his own man, for the most part: he had practiced his grappling (“Mind the shoulder, thanks.”), finished his kickboxing class in the gym down the street, and had surreptitiously bought a few extra bottles of alcohol while he picked up the groceries (with Jim’s platinum card). He had six days left of freedom-- not complete, his shoulder silently reminded him with every single damned twinge-- but it was enough. He had a life, when Jim was away; not perfect by any means, since he was barely allowed to use his own medical degree-- but it was enough. It was _enough_ , John told himself as he placed the groceries in their fridge, their pantry, before looking around the enormous white kitchen in the enormous white flat that he lived in, where he slept every night and allowed his whole life to revolve around Jim-fucking-Moriarty, the man he had been _bonded_ to, the man who had-- 

 

John gripped his left shoulder hard, calming himself. Breathe. It was just a lifetime more, hours blending into days, into weeks, into months, into  _ years--  _ he felt his heart beating wildly in his chest. He had time. He had six days, all to himself: he could lunch with one of his former coworkers this week. Ask them about their domestic lives. Listen to Sarah’s continued struggle with her sister’s drama; Mike’s chuckling about the bloke who kept sweeping through his lab as if he worked there. He could live their lives awhile, play out the stories; and that was enough for him. 

 

For now, groceries in their places, he needed to head over to Rainham; he had his own brand of work to do. 

 

The ride there wasn’t too bad, nor was the actual getting into the old warehouse where the omegas were stored-- the worst part was the scent. The air around John went from the cool air of the Thames on his face to the slap of pheromones, of sex. Heat: cloying and wet, sweet enough to taste, the scent of heat swirled around the shabby beds set up for the omegas, thick and inescapable. John only nodded toward one of the guards-- Maurice-- as he stepped in, asking, “Where is she?” He rolled up the sleeves of his button-down, ready to deal with an abscess, according to Matthew and his partner-on-duty, ‘the size of his fist.’ 

 

He followed Maurice’s pointed instructions to a far-away corner of the building (occasionally waving at former patients on the way-- there was Maddy, there was Ojal, and a ways away sat Jamal, sitting back and reading an old magazine), where the pheromones began to compete with something more bacterial-- the smell of decay. 

 

John’s stomach filled with dread. Oh, God _.  _

 

He set down his duffle bag and walked into the curtained-off section of the room-- the only area allowing for some modicum of privacy. The atmosphere of the dark building, already dampened by the circumstances, by the barely-available living space-- today it was almost funerial. “Hey,” John called, to a girl lying still on a pile of sheets. Shivering. She turned her head toward him by just a fraction of a degree-- acknowledgement, John hoped. On her arm was a massive abscess, rendering the skin around it stretched and fragile. Thank God John had brought antibiotics. 

 

She was so  _ young _ \-- barely thirteen or fourteen, and already she had been whisked away from her family, from her friends, to  _ this _ . That it could happen in London of all places, that it could happen within the borders of a developed country… John took a deep breath to calm his mind. He had been so close to calling in, so many times. He had fantasized about it for years, laid in bed and wondered how he would make the call, how the police would rush in, how the children here (so many of them) would have another chance at life, at being with family again-- 

 

But that was why Jim only let him know the locations of the United Kingdom omega houses, the German omega houses, the French ones. To be found out and rescued in any European Union countries just meant more confinement, only under the protection of the law. He clenched his hand into a tight fist before he emptied his duffle bag, piece by piece.  _ And _ , John considered as he unpacked his supplies,  _ the slimy bastard would decimate London’s hospitals, just to be particularly  _ personal _ with his threat. _ Alcohol, novacaine, saline solution, antibiotics (prescription, thank you), alcohol wipes, gauze, bandages, more gauze, the emergency-only paper towels-- everything he could do to make it a sterile environment. He looked at the girl, asked her softly, “What’s your name?” And, hearing no response, went down to his knees and got to work. 

 

He would be done twenty minutes later, with heaps of gauze and paper towels to be thrown away. She had packing in her arm and was mostly unconscious, but it seemed that already the infection was lessening. 

 

**___**

  
  


He had been organizing the frankly vast collection of makeup in his vanity when Jim swanned in, five days earlier than promised. John’s fragile little world disintegrated with the sing-song voice of, “John,  _ darling _ .” By the sudden tension in his own muscles at that smarmy fuck’s voice, John knew his alpha was home. “There’s my beautiful boy.” Arms tangled around him, and even as he pulled away, he found himself being dragged into him like a gravitational pull-- Jim Moriarty’s very presence was a black hole, that way, inescapable and crushing. John felt hot breath on his cheek, the rough scratch of stubble. 

 

“You’re back early,” John replied, eyes down on his collection. How fucking domestic. 

 

“Mm.” John could feel Jim outright rumbling. “Not done with work yet, Sweetheart.” The arms around him constricted at his chest, caging John in place. 

 

John continued organising his vanity, unfettered. “What d’you need, Jim?” 

 

A pause. John quirked his lip for a moment (just a moment, lest he face the consequences), well aware that he had cut through the bullshit to the core of the matter. He heard Jim sigh against his back, lean forward onto his neck and kiss the top vertebra of his spine. “Can my darling boy help me with a little negotiation?” His voice was syrupy, pleading, as if John had a choice. Jim’s his hand, already at his chest, slipped between the buttons of John’s shirt to tweak at a nipple. 

 

It was only a testament to what he had become that John could already feel the slow heat of arousal building in him. John turned his head to his alpha, coy smile pinned on, and felt lips and prickly stubble at his cheek. “What do you want, Jim?” Repeated, changed, now a question tailor-made to fit Jim’s needs; was he to be the novelty of the night, on show like a dog? A human symbol of wealth? John was many things for the man who’d bought him some fifteen years ago. He could be paraded around as a human doll, delicate and coy and teasing; a series of hot-wet-tight holes to plunge into, a carrot for Jim’s business associates where Jim could otherwise provide a stick; on occasion, a very specific human weapon. He played his roles carefully, with practiced ease; every game-piece of Jim’s had their roles to play, and every one could be disposed of according to his alpha’s whims.

 

John went still as the hand on his nipple pinched. Another hand rose from his chest to his throat, and John was pinned to him, trapped, his throat exposed. “I want you to be beautiful for me, John.” His voice was soft, reverent. The hand on his throat squeezed-- hard enough to constrict his trachea, but not hard enough to bruise. “Make a few colleagues jealous.” 

 

John, humiliated and furious, smiled softly at his darling. “By when?” 

 

“By eight tonight.” 

 

Fucking hell. John’s mood changed immediately: he swatted his partner away as best he could, already on his way to the shower. 

 

He had to rush through his usual exfoliating routine, for nights like this. Still, he had the comfort of knowing what came next as he dressed (dove-grey suit and blood-red tie, matching pocket square) and prepared himself properly, with a methodical rhythm perfected through practice (post-shower enema). His eyeliner, made into an exact science, was almost habit by now; thin, sharp, and black as sin. His eyeshadow was shimmering gold, tapering away to softer browns at the corners of his eyes, applied with surgical precision and practiced care. He was working on his highlighter (finished with his contour) when he spied Jim lounging on their bed, snapping surreptitious photos of him on his mobile. John sat up straighter in response, angling his face for the best display like an animal on show. He clenched his jaw and glared into his own reflection.

 

“Good boy,” Jim called, and it took all his willpower for John to keep from upending the whole fucking vanity right then and there. 

 

**___**

 

It was a gorgeous Italian restaurant in the West End, as opulent as Jim liked it. The owner touted the menu to them in their private room in the back: fish, lasagna, tortellini, all starchy comfort foods fit to leave a man adjusting his belt as he left-- leaving Jim’s Chinese guests fumbling through their orders, forced to denigrate themselves by asking exactly what was in each dish. 

 

It was always the little things, with Jim. Little ways to force someone off balance, eventually teetering into his hands. John only sipped at the water, already decided on the salmon dish. 

 

(“Don’t want you too full after dinner, baby,” Jim had reminded him in the car, tenderly rubbing at John’s belly, as if he were expecting-- “God knows you’re getting filled enough tonight.”)

 

Jim was telling a story in fluent Mandarin. His arms swayed this way and that, and their guests-- the two of them, dressed in the same general colour scheme of black and gold-- laughed hard at his little tale, leaning back and shaking glasses with their boisterous gesticulation. John smiled, silent, sipping at his wine; no need to get smashed yet, at least. He ignored the two pairs eyes roving over his person: at his chest while he sat, at his hips and arse when he stood for the loo, and at his lips when he speared a bite of salmon and brought it to his mouth. John knew what he was, here. 

 

He knew well enough to let his mind wander while Jim would clutch at his jaw and force rough kisses on his cheeks, his lips, leaving John to wipe off the brown-butter sauce of Jim’s ravioli from his face. He was meant to be maneuvered tonight. Used by his alpha as he pleased. 

 

Conversation died down into whispers, and all parties excluding John leaned forward in heated discussion. Eyes flicked toward him, before back to Jim in a cyclical repetition: clearly John was part of the deal. Jim’s voice went harsh, and a familiar cold grin had plastered itself on his face. He lifted John’s arm to the table, pushed back the sleeves of his blazer and button down before gesticulating at the smooth skin of his forearm. Right, then, best to start now. Slowly, John took back his arm and rose from the table. 

 

John brushed his alpha’s shoulder as he left the room to request a few bottles of whiskey. Best to be smashed when he was chemically induced into heat. 

 

___

 

He didn’t know what dosage of Firestarter Jim had given him when he’d injected it into his forearm, but whatever dosage he was given, it left him absolutely  _ gushing _ . There was one alpha behind him, one of the two from dinner, hefting his entire body up off the ground, his legs pulled up against his shoulders-- and another at his front, plowing away with abandon. Two uppermost members of the Triad, he guessed, and John had been used as a negotiation tool so as to better tempt the alphas into… well, John couldn’t fathom. Clearly, though, Jim’s little ploy had worked. No wonder he’d been told to dress to the nines; his suit was in tatters, bloody torn apart by the two blokes the moment they’d come to a deal. 

 

He felt like a ragdoll. His arms swung back and forth with every thrust inside him, and his mind simply… Went elsewhere. He stared dumbly at the ceiling of their hotel room (penthouse, of course), idling his focus around every baroque swirl that adorned it; loops here, swoops there, and John swam in the delicate fleur-de-lis motif. He could get away from the ripping pain in his anus, the wet-hot pleasure that left his nerves fried, confused. The ceiling accoutrements that gleamed bronze in the light...

 

_ Slap.  _

 

His ears rang. His attention was regained, and John turned back with wide eyes to the man in front of him, knotted inside him. Had he not known better, he would have been indignant. “Give attention, slut,” the bloke-- John’d not caught the name-- snarled in awkward, barely-fluent English. Several feet away, he heard Jim bark a laugh. John sat a moment in wide-eyed silence, staring at the sneering son of a bitch. He felt his jaw tense, his own eyes flash; he stretched his fingers as if ready to make a fist. 

 

And then he pounced. 

 

His hands hit the bloke first, and he took him down with ease. John straddled him, dug his nails into his chest-- and sunk back down on his prick, taking it at his own pace, thank-you-very-much. He felt absolutely feral; he pinned the alpha below him down with his eyes alone, and, bond mark or no, John took his pleasure. 

 

He rolled his hips, seating himself, brushed his aching prick against the man’s stomach, listened to his filthy sodden groans and felt his stubby hands on his hips-- he was bouncing on his knot, every ounce an animal. In three days’ time, he’d regain himself, look back on his actions, and swallow the rising horror that this was what he’d become. 

 

For now, though, he rode. 

 

He took what he could and gritted his teeth through what he thought he couldn’t, heard the wretched slap of his arse against a stranger’s hips, the wet squelching of a cock in him, a knot pressing at him; and he only leaned into the touch of arms wrapping around him from behind, hot breath at the back of his neck. Jim? No-- these arms were thicker, hoary. John arched his back, threw his head back as if in ecstasy. “Incredible,” he heard at his right ear as the lips behind him skimmed his shoulder, before the bloke’s head turned up toward Jim. “How much did you pay for him?” It was as if John weren’t even in the room.

 

If John stopped moving, it was only for a moment. He turned to the man behind him with a coy smile, lips brushing a thick beard; “Let’s not talk money anymore,” he whispered, quiet. The hands on his chest dipped lower, and John tipped forward, tipping his arse back; the cock in him slid out with a pathetic wet sound. His message was clear enough-- the bloke behind him seemed to understand, not hesitating to press in, in,  _ in _ \-- John held back a moan; no need to give Jim more ammunition against him. He leaned forward, felt hands grasp at his chest, and grabbed them, lifted them to his lips, and pressed warm kisses on the palms of them, the wrists, delicate pecks and long laving licks that were more fellatio than affection. 

 

The bloke in front of him moved, and John leaned forward, pressed his head down on his shoulder as the one behind him fucked into him, yes,  _ yes _ \-- a primal part of him was reveling in it, in the attention, in the two alphas focusing on him and him alone, on his pleasure, on  _ having him _ \-- 

 

He felt a pinch at the rim of his anus, and as he flinched back it was already too late. The second-- both of them-- John let out a whine, pained, as he was forced further open. It was searing, so much that John couldn’t move, couldn’t get away from it; he felt hands clamp down on his wrists, his thighs, and panic settled in because he  _ couldn’t stop it.  _ He flinched as the second moved in him; bit at the bloke in front of him, scratched at him as best he could, a blaring tacit  _ get out! _

 

He scrabbled, squirmed, and shouted, drugged with his own hormones as he was, to no avail. Distantly, he heard Jim make a call, business as usual. 

 

It would be four days later when John would walk out of that hotel and back into the streets of London, limping heavily and dreaming, in an exhausted barely-awake haze, of the privacy of his own bedroom. Of downing his birth control pills and forgetting this whole hellish week had ever transpired. He would try to snatch his hand away from Jim as they walked, have some semblance of autonomy--  but James Moriarty would only trap John’s hand back in his grip and tighten it until John’s fingers went numb.

 

**___**

 

He just needed to walk. To get last week out of his system,  _ sod  _ Jim’s current lockdown, sod that his second-in-command was in the Tube that instant toward John and Jim’s flat to keep an eye on him, just-- he was claustrophobic beyond belief, even with Jim back in Germany. He had been on laxatives and bed rest the last week after his little encounter with two higher-ups from the Chinese Triad, and John-- he was tearing himself apart. For fuck’s sake, he’d  _ been  _ torn apart, battered and choked for days, his head pressed into the mattress and his hips guided up, up for the two blokes to take while Jim tapped away on his fucking iPhone, as if it weren’t happening, as if he weren’t being sold out like a whore to blokes he’d never even met-- and he couldn’t-- he couldn’t-- 

 

John kept walking, all the way to the Tesco’s and down into the Tube station, just to help a girl with an abscess. Doing what that education of his had trained him for. More than a living fucktoy, more than a bitch in heat. He helped people. He could pretend he lived a life worth living, actually  _ work  _ at a clinic ( _ “No, Johnny Boy, what if someone links you to me? They’ll know right where to find you, won’t they? Just quit from it and I’ll double your allowance, how about that, Baby?” _ ), living with purpose, outside of the human hamster ball Jim had placed him in, out of range of Jim’s Browning, out of the knowledge that Jim’d do it, he’d do it again, and when he did, he wouldn’t  _ miss _ \-- 

 

The warehouse. John entered the ten-digit passcode and walked in, adjusting the duffle bag on his shoulder and ignoring the explosion of texts-- Moran, of course-- to his mobile. Moran could wait.

 

He walked in, beelined for the back corner where the girl was staying, and pulled back a dreary curtain that must’ve once been a vibrant red. “Hello?” 

 

She was napping. Not sweating, not taking heaving violent breaths that left John worried for her immune system and her health-- just sleeping. He watched for a moment as she slept, peaceful at least while she was unconscious. Her arms were splayed out by her head, her fingers curled into her hand, and she breathed softly, twitching every few seconds as if being tugged by some invisible string. John snorted, before kneeling next to her (wincing as his knees cracked) and calling again, softer now, “Hello? This is John.” 

 

Her eyes fluttered open, black like onyx, and John opened his mouth to introduce himself when all hell broke loose. 

 

They heard doors slam open, saw some sort of gas flooding the room-- the girl went from drowsy to alert in moments, scrambling under her thin sheets as if that would cover her. With no other real recourse, John covered her body with his so that the passing swarm of blokes in riot gear wouldn’t trample her as they made their way through. They ran in, shouting orders, telling omegas and guards alike to stay down, and a cold shot of horror went down John’s spine as he realised that this was a government operation. 

 

Thankfully those curtains-- tattered blankets, really-- were strung up around their little area; it provided him and the girl some modicum of privacy, a possible out from the onslaught of troops-- John rubbed her back as she shook, sobbed into the blankets and into the floor. They could get out of this. He’d help her out, let her stay at his flat, maybe talk Jim out of a sale-- he just had to find a window, anything,  _ anything _ \-- 

 

The flimsy safety of their curtains was torn down, and John looked for the third time in his life into the wrong end of a gun barrel. 

 

He felt a harsh pinch in his throat, brought his hand up to check the damage, to check the blood loss. Nothing but a-- dart, of some kind? He looked at the man before him and felt a sense of vertigo hit him, hit him hard-- felt his vision swim and his body grow instantly heavy,  _ so  _ heavy--

 

John tried as if to stand, to get away from the immediate danger.  _ Go to Jim _ . He had to go to Jim. To J-- 

  
And he was out. 


	3. Dialogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So this has been a long time coming, largely because of school and the like-- hope you guys enjoy this installment!
> 
> That said, I'm not going to pretend to understand how formal investigations take place, but thankfully I don't think Sherlock does, either. Thanks for reading!

There was absolutely no point taking the elevator; it would just be precious seconds of delay, sheer torture before he found him. There was of course the very real possibility that this was a decoy, some extraordinary trap instated by Moriarty to throw him off the trail, but--  _ but.  _ Sherlock raced down flight after flight of stairs, his knees jarring every few steps,  _ dammit _ , was it real? How could he be caught so easily? It was as if he were being thrown into Sherlock’s hands, too good to be true. Careful. He couldn’t get his hopes up, not yet; the universe was rarely so generous so as to toss him this easy a lead. 

 

It would be four floors later when Sherlock rushed to Lestrade in an underground hallway, sunken below layers of steel, lead, concrete-- “Where is he?” He was panting, breathing hard, looking hard at any and all nearby doors, why wasn’t Lestrade  _ talking _ \--? 

 

“He’s a few rooms in,” Lestrade answered, gesturing toward the door ahead of him, looking-- Sherlock stopped. Looking haggard. Pale, bothered, wary-- 

 

“What’s wrong?” Was the omega dead? He had to have been found in a raid; what distinguished him from the other victims? Possibly age, scarification, likely, but there had to be something else, something macabre enough to have the veteran DI bothered like this-- Sherlock’s heart stopped.  _ The universe was rarely so generous _ . Murdered, then, likely bloody, violent. 

 

“Aside from the fines we’re getting from the Omega Ministry and the calls from the MI6, it’s--” he ran a hand through his hair, “He’d been unconscious-- someone in the raid had tranque’d him, had him down, we undressed him to be sure he wasn’t carrying anything, and, well.” He fidgeted, gulped, instinctively reached into his breast pocket for a cigarette-- something stressful, then. Assaulted, perhaps? 

 

Whatever. “Just let me in.” Whether he’d deal with a pathologist or a live omega, he’d have fresh information. No more wandering through weathered old data for the umpteenth time, no more running in circles-- Lestrade swiped his ID, and in Sherlock strode, into another preliminary room (why were there so many damned  _ intermediaries _ ?) where, through an enormous pane of glass, sat a groggy middle-aged man who alternated between rubbing his temples and glaring through the window. Judging by the scar on his throat, he was mated.

 

“Two-way mirror,” Lestrade offered. Sherlock’s lips twitched, pleased: this omega at least knew what he was dealing with. He held himself with reserve, his fingers laced together when they weren’t massaging his evidently aching head. He retained his calm fairly well, his eyes down on table before him, lashes fanned out against his cheekbones. This still, half of his body concealed under the table, Sherlock couldn’t get a good grasp of him: obviously he had nerves of steel, calm under this amount of pressure, even as he was only just regaining lucidity in a foreign environment-- 

 

This would be interesting. Sherlock nicked Lestrade’s ID, and, swiping it, cracked open the door, walking inside without even a glance in Lestrade’s direction. No, this was Sherlock’s jurisdiction. The man-- John?-- only looked him up and down with the arch of a brow. “I’m not being transferred to a compound just yet, then?” The omega asked, surprisingly sober. When had he been administered anesthesia, again? 

 

“I wouldn’t know.” He hoped not, at least. Sherlock pulled out a seat for himself, eyeing the man, his eyes and face, his arms, elbows down on the table-- ah. That was it. Delicate, barely-visible, but there: track marks. Intravenous drug user-- Sherlock focused back on his eyes, back on his arms once more-- but not often. Maybe once or twice per month. In which case, considerable self control. “Tell me your name.” 

 

The omega grinned, near-hysterical, leaning forward to run his hands through his hair, his left arm barely slower, lifted more carefully, favored through movement of the shoulder. Some sort of trauma there, then, enough to cause muscular damage; one-too-many dislocations of the shoulder? It couldn’t be too hard a fall, no, that would only affect the acromion, the subacromial bursa, maybe the biceps-- this was too internal to the shoulder, the way he moved his arm. Full-frontal attack of some kind, something that had penetrated deep. Fingers, maybe? A knife, though that was hardly believable-- who pointed a weapon at an omega? Ah. He was speaking. “No point to, though, is there? I’ll be in a compound in, what, an hour? And by then it’s not as if any of my statements’ll count for anything.” 

 

If this were the Yard, the MI6, even Interpol, he’d have a point-- in no EU court was an omega’s word taken seriously in the court of law, at least not enough to count as a witness statement. The man was planning to be lost in the bureaucracy of omega housing, surely, to be forgotten by law enforcement and deemed yet another victim of trafficking. Well-- it might help to inform him they weren’t playing that particular game, if Sherlock could help it. “What happened to your shoulder, then?” 

 

The omega’s lips quirked. “I was searched?” He asked, pulling into himself. Unsafe, reacting to a potentially dangerous situation, already feeling violated.    
  
“I wouldn’t know,” Sherlock answered, truthful. He glanced behind him to the two-way mirror where Lestrade surely watched the two of them. “I want to say most likely, but I’ve only just heard about you. The officer behind the two-way mirror can corroborate for me-- all I know is that you’re an omega from the trafficking ring.” He glanced down at the omega’s hands, saw them loosen, relax. “Which begs the question,” Sherlock continued, leaning forward, his eyes locking on the omega’s own, “What happened to you, John?” 

 

John reacted just as Sherlock had hoped: instant recognition. His body went tense, eyes flashed-- Sherlock leaned back with a smirk as John replied, voice cold. “You’ve made some presumptions already, then.” He was choosing his words carefully now, as if he hadn’t already given himself up.

 

“We’d learned a few things from previously trafficked omegas,” Sherlock answered, only tacking on at the end, “Through simple interviews, I assure you.” John didn’t look particularly convinced. “After that, it was a simple guessing game: what is a well-dressed, relatively old omega doing amongst a group of pubescent omegas shipped in from Pakistan?” He raked his eyes over John’s outfit: designer, tailored to his body, and only scuffed through his recent run-in with the MI6. “All it took was asking you your name, John.” He lifted his hand, snapping his fingers, before he leaned his body once more against the table. “You must be awful at poker, John-- you were so  _ obvious. _ ” 

 

Sherlock had never before seen a man’s eyes quite so bright with anger. It was with remarkable calm that the man replied cooly, “And the shoulder?” 

 

“You favor it, obviously-- look at how you sit.” John sat up stock-straight immediately in reaction, of course. “You can barely lift your arm above your shoulder.” Sherlock felt himself grin, the thrill of an audience speeding along his speech, “You train often-- peak physical condition, and looking at your clothes I’d see you as upper-class. Why lean away, then? Why let your shoulder slump? You’ve been educated-- or trained-- well enough to navigate this interrogation, which means you should’ve been taught how to sit, how to angle your body to suit your situation. And yet your shoulder slumps forward. You’re not sick and bleeding, nor is your pain sharp enough for you to wince as you move-- an old wound. So.” He looked at the man, saw the blanched peripeteia of a man who had been outsmarted. “What happened to your shoulder, John?”

 

Rather than answer, John Doe looked up to the ceiling and laughed, evidently hysterical. Sherlock raised a brow: was this all it took to break what had become a mythologized omega? “Jesus,” John chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “I take it you’re not part of the Yard, then?” 

 

Pardon? Was that an insult? John looked at him a moment in stunned silence, before laughing harder. “I’m a consultant for the Yard, actually,” Sherlock replied, voice cold. “I come in when they’re out of their depth--”

 

“Which they usually are,” John supplied, leaning forward on his elbows and grinning, “That was impressive.” 

 

_ Impressive.  _ Sherlock sat straighter in his seat. “It’s not difficult. Just observation.” 

 

John quirked his lips, as if amused. “You’re not getting anything out of me, you realise.” 

 

No? Sherlock sat forward, eyeing him like prey. A new game-- surely not his intellectual equal, but at least some kind of challenge. “We’ll see about that.” He sat forward once more, predatory. 

 

In response, John only looked him in the eyes, shoulders set. He refused to cower, as most would in his situation. No, he’d had experience with intimidation, clearly. “Tell me what you know about Jim Moriarty.” Best to start at the core of things. 

 

John went pale. He breathed fast through his nostrils, and Sherlock could feel victory at his fingertips. “I don’t kn--”

 

“That’s not true,” Sherlock pointed out, barely containing his excitement. “You at least know  _ of  _ him. Tell me…” he pulled his mobile from his pocket and opened a saved image of the Moriarty sketch. “Does this look familiar?” The recognition was so blatant in John’s face that Sherlock was almost disappointed. “That’s a yes, then,” he smiled, pocketing his mobile and weaving his fingers together. “Clearly you know of him, John. You know him. You’ve been caught.” He leaned back, satisfied, “There’s no point in keeping quie--”

 

“I can’t tell you anything, Sir.” John’s nostrils were flared, and his jaw was set. He was leaning forward, every ounce of his body tense. There was something being kept from him. A reason. Something held over John’s head.    
  
“Why not?” Holmes asked, quiet. John held his head, fingers digging into his scalp. “John.” The omega mumbled something under his breath. Sherlock leaned forward, brows knit together. “Come again?”

 

“He’s got every hospital in London rigged to explode.”

  
  


___

 

Sherlock had never seen all of London shut down at all, let alone so quickly. Bomb squads were shuttered out of the Yard in full procession, hurtling off to different hospitals, where professionals would scour every nook and cranny of every single room. Moriarty had been smart, choosing buildings of such complexity and low security; London could be shut down for days. Updated on the status of the bomb search, Lestrade returned to the lower sanctum and informed Sherlock, who stood watching John through the two-way mirror. “We’ve found one bomb ready to go in Maudsley,” he explained, arms crossed. “Whoever he is, he’s high up.”

 

Sherlock didn’t respond; he stood in silence, feet tapping, watching John glare up at the window. He felt a rush of adrenaline: in a long line of losses, the first _victory_. Pulling up the collar of his coat, he swept back into the interrogation room. Lestrade, looking after him, walked out. 

 

“You were right,” he called, pulling out his seat and sitting down.    
  
“Hello to you too, then,” John responded with a sardonic smile. 

 

Surprised, Sherlock replied with a chuckle-- most people weren’t amused by his antics. “The threat to public safety has all but disappeared,” he started off, leaning forward. “If you can give us the information, we can have him caught by--” 

 

“You know that’s not how this works, Mister…?”    
  


“Holmes.” 

 

“Right.” John sat forward, looking Sherlock in the eye with more than a hint of desperation. “You’ve only cut off one head of many, Holmes. If you’ve been following him, you should know as well as I do that he’s already planned something awful to happen next. He’s got leverage and resources, resources that--”

 

“What are you to him?” Sherlock asked, interrupting John mid-sentence. No point in listening to well-established threats when there was more to learn. A higher-up informant? What did he know that could leave Moriarty working so hard to ensure his silence? 

 

John only covered his face. Went silent for several excruciating moments, mouth set in a frown so deep Sherlock wouldn’t have been surprised if he saw John start to cry. “Don’t you have food here, or do you expect omega prisoners to starve?” 

 

___

 

Sherlock watched as John ate up his dinner. He ate in small bites, evidently educated in etiquette, wiping his hands every few minutes. It was a simple salmon dish-- Angelo had whipped something up for the suspect, clearly excited to be a part of an investigation. 

 

Despite the certain quality of the food, John looked sick. He pushed his dinner away, standing and knocking on the window, and-- as Lestrade found-- requested the loo. 

 

He vomited. Sometime later, John walked-- no, limped-- he was hiding a  _ limp _ back to his holding cell escorted by Lestrade. He was ginger on both feet, shuffling in small steps as if any larger pace would hurt him-- “Lestrade,” Sherlock called to the DI, “Tell me what you saw on his body. Trauma. Wounds, scars, the like.” 

 

“Oh.” Lestrade went pale in the face, turning to the ground. Something bad, then, clearly. “He looked… Ravaged, frankly. I don’t know what happened to him, but there were claw marks all over him. Healing, yeah, but.” He stopped. “Burn marks around his wrists and back, and, ah. Clear damage to the arse, though we didn’t look too close at that.” He rubbed his nose, crossing his arms. “Hell, there’s even a bullet wound somewhere on his shoulder. His alpha must be a rough sod, treating him like that during heat-- ” 

 

_ His alpha.  _ Sherlock’s face lit up, and he nabbed Lestrade’s ID card before slipping back into John’s holding cell, exuberant. How could he have been so  _ blind?  _

 

“Clearly your alpha is directly associated with Moriarty,” Sherlock grinned, eyes pinned on John once more. “It explains your association, Moriarty’s concern about you, your knowing him.” He slammed his palms on the table, causing John to jump. “Who knows? He might even use you as a negotiating tool. It would explain the track marks-- Firestarter?” Oh, he was on a  _ roll!  _ “You attend negotiations with potential clients, business partners, anyone-- your alpha provides the carrot, you, and Moriarty-- he provides the stick.” It made perfect sense: have someone else use sex to distract, to convince, and all Moriarty would have to do is wait for the negotiation to end. 

 

John only raised an eyebrow, frowning. “You’re not entirely wrong, at least,” he finally replied, crossing his legs and leaning forward. 

 

Oh? John was correcting him. Filling in the blanks. Where was he wrong? Sherlock sat down, vibrating with the sensation of victory. Moriarty was a worthy adversary, certainly, but now it was just a matter of time…

 

Sherlock opened his mouth to investigate further when Lestrade walked in, followed by two men in hazmat suits. One brandished a long needle, glistening with what could only be an anesthetic.  “We’re going to have to finish this later, Sherlock-- the Ministry’s here.” 

 

___

 

Sherlock was so close to answers-- legitimate, concrete answers into Moriarty’s network, he’d felt as if he could have touched them. But instead John’s prone and unconscious body was being carted into an ambulance vehicle, and Sherlock was only forced to watch, frantically texting his brother for a renewed pass to John’s facility. Another concession, undoubtedly, but… He was the lone lead in this, so close to the centre of Jim’s web. He couldn’t just let John slip through bureaucratic cracks. 

 

“Give it a rest today, Sherlock,” Lestrade called, patting him on the shoulder. Sherlock brushed his hand off, hunching closer to his mobile whilst higher-ups from the ministry wiped down the cell, examined every inch of it. “We’ve had a good day. Hell, we’ve saved lives. At the very least, go home and get some res--” 

 

“Already slept.” 

 

Sherlock heard a familiar sigh. “You slept for one night, if even. Go to bed and we’ll have this figured out by morning.”

 

‘We’, royal. Sherlock turned to his contemporary, confusion etching a vertical line between his brows. Lestrade was exhausted, that much was certain-- from the bags under his eyes to the days-old stains on his shirt, he had been burning the midnight oil as well. Well-- at the very least Sherlock could return home, review his evidence there. “Fine,” he answered, pulling at his jacket and stalking off. 

 

Only minutes later he received a text from his brother: 

 

_ Stop by the Yard tomorrow. I’ve got you a pass to see your omega.  _

 

Finally. He knew he’d come to owe his brother months’ worth of favours. Still-- worth it. 

 

___

 

Once again, back to the grindstone. Last night’s review of evidence had yielded nothing; it had only put his mind palace in further disarray, leaving him groggy and silently accepting the coffee proffered to him as he and Lestrade stepped into an Omega Ministry car. 

 

“Look at you. As if you’ve been on holiday,” Lestrade commented, softly elbowing Sherlock. In response, Sherlock only turned and glared at his contemporary, flipping up the collar of his Belstaff. 

 

Sherlock only rolled his eyes, silently willing this car ride from hell to go as quickly as possible. 

 

It would be later when he would tune back into the world, after spending what felt like minutes searching through information, evidence about the omega, images of the bombs planted in London’s hospitals (none of them shared common technology-- clearly perpetrated by different actors, yet more threads from Moriarty’s web)-- there was nothing. Sherlock was swimming in the tangents of evidence, pulling this knot of information apart, only to find more questions: where did John fit into this hierarchy? How did he become involved with the likes of Moriarty, given his clearly operational moral compass? And more importantly-- what did he know? 

 

“Oi! Sherlock!” 

 

And they were there. Sherlock followed Lestrade’s lead, climbing out of the car and through security-- tighter this time, despite the lessened number of gates to drive through. Cameras were everywhere on the premises, and the whole property was smaller, condensed: there was no facade of nature, here. Only a large brick building to walk to, and the crunch of gravel beneath his feet. Sherlock opened his mobile, testing something… 

 

Yep. No cellular reception. Sherlock walked the rough gravel pathway to the facility with Lestrade, surrounded on both sides by guards. 

 

Once inside, they flashed their passes-- as if it were necessary, given the bloody security outside-- and followed two receptionists to what was supposed to be John’s room. Once again, the building was immaculate: perfectly clean, constantly under surveillance, and utterly lifeless. There wasn’t a single person in sight down various corridors, and peeking through small windows into private rooms revealed what had to be small bands of omegas looking curiously out at them. They were treated more like animals than people, here, held captive and surveiled like a lethal new disease. Finally they made it to what was supposed to be John’s room-- the receptionist produced a ring of keys from her pocket, and, cycling through them, finally opened the door. 

 

He couldn’t have possibly escaped. “Ah-- shoot, sorry,” the first receptionist apologised, checking her watch and turning to the other, “Seems he’s still in surgery. He should be out within… What, an hour or so?” 

 

Surgery. Both Sherlock and Lestrade turned to one another, for once in unison: How could one suspect be so difficult to pin down when he was  _ in custody _ ? 

 

“Fine,” Lestrade responded, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes. “We’ll wait, God willing he’ll be alright. D’you two maybe know what…?” he gesticulated quickly, hands flapping about. 

 

“Well, when we were first processing him, he went through a metal detector,” the second receptionist piped in, smoothing down his hair, “all residents and employees here do-- and the machine just kept picking something up on him, even after he was stripped just about naked.” Lestrade and Sherlock made eye contact at one another, yet again quietly horrified at the treatment to which the omegas were subjected, before the receptionist continued on, “Anyway, it turned out to be something  _ inside  _ his shoulder. Might’ve been some sort of debris from a bullet wound, maybe, so he’s in surgery to. You know. Get it out.” 

 

A bullet fragment. At the very least they could figure out what it was made of; possibly ascertain the make of it, who produced it, and _then_ \-- they’d have, albeit likely extensive, a list of possible suspects. After that it would be an issue of name recognition on John’s part, information obtained from the company’s database, addresses, leads, _information._ A lead when, just days earlier, there had been none forthcoming. An opportunity to snip away threads of Moriarty’s web. “We need that as evidence.” 

 

An hour in the facility’s waiting room. Endless paces along the floor, three bodyguards who had warned him against startling incoming omegas--  _ oh, please _ , Lestrade was dealing with them well enough, chatting with them, showing them pictures from his pathetic family life and ‘marriage’-- and toppling over six different beige-coloured chairs. 

 

Sixty excruciating minutes. Thirty-six hundred seconds, all wasted on  _ surgery _ and  _ procedure.  _ Finally a surgeon came out, baggie in hand, a deeply confused expression on her face. “It’s not a bullet,” she began, holding up the baggie, “But I’ve never-- it looks like some sort of…” 

 

While she trailed off, voice wavering, Sherlock took the bag into his hands, quickly examining it, ready to compare it against his internal database of bullets and manufacturers, when-- 

 

It was some kind of microchip. 

  
  



	4. Chapter update and indefinite hiatus alert

So. I'll keep this brief. I've been sitting on this for awhile, wondering whether I wanted to keep this going-- I'm no longer interested in the show after the most recent season (don't get me started), and, after having loved _Sherlock's_ characters for years, pouring time and effort into all sorts of unpublished works, well, I've run out of steam. To everyone who has enjoyed this fic, I just want to say thank you. There have been times where, after months of not updating, one of you would comment on TGoH (This is an impossible title, jeez) and reinvigorate me. I appreciate every single comment and kudo, and I decided that I didn't want to just abandon this without any explanation; especially after all the late nights spent hammering out the details of this fic. I don't want anyone commenting or wondering if this will ever update: I just don't have the motivation to do this anymore. 

I just want to say thanks. Really. You guys have been great. I'm posting the (unfinished) chapter 4 below for those who are interested. 

 

___

 

John was in surgery. The lights, the looming figures-- all of it was too familiar for him not to recognize it. His vision was blurry; his shoulder  _ hurt.  _ A nurse smoothed back his hair, before calling for someone. An anaesthesiologist, most likely. Something he couldn’t see clicked, and the room spun and swam and dragged him under. 

 

He was looking into the barrel of a gun. Quietly pleading for Jim to  _ calm down _ \-- no one was out to get him. No one was going to hurt him. No ‘Sherlock’ or whoever was going to break into the flat at any minute, no, not even after his fucking idiot stunt with the bombs. But Jim shot John anyway, and John fell to the floor and went into shock. It was textbook, really. 

 

He was rushed into surgery. He only vaguely remembered being lifted onto a gurney, being wheeled into an emergency room to be operated upon-- but he remembered this. He remembered the sting of something foreign forced into him. He remembered the antibiotics and the fever and the sweats. And he was right there again, under a scalpel and what felt like pliers in his shoulder, pulling something out-- John could barely remember looking into the red light of a clock, the numbers 15:05 searing his retina, visible when he shut his eyes again and went back down. 

 

The next time he woke up, he was in a hospital. Completely different from Bart’s, however: the walls were beige, the nurses were better trained (excelling feigning of care, there) and the doctor was outright attentive. 

 

John lifted a hand to rub at his eyes, aching with exhaustion, only to find-- better to use the right one. “How did I--” He was in custody. Right.  _ Shit _ . “Why am I in hospital?” John asked, gingerly sitting up. 

 

“Well,” a doctor prepared to explain, scooting near John in a chair and smoothing out her coat, “You remember having difficulty getting through a metal detector?” Right. Yeah, he couldn’t get through, because some sort of shrapnel was in his shoulder… 

 

“So you took out, what, a piece of a bullet?” 

 

“Well, no.” The doctor adjusted her glasses, before leaning forward-- John knew that move. When Jim allowed him to practice as a doctor, he had  _ used  _ that move. Shit. “There was some sort of… Of technology imbedded into your shoulder. We don’t know entirely what it is, but clearly someone… Well, this couldn’t have been an accident. That’s all we know.” 

 

The doctor-- Iver-- was out of her depth, that much was clear. Just as clear was the culprit: Jim had had him chipped like a fucking  _ dog.  _ Likely for tracking, possibly for something else pertaining to his micromanaging, possessive needs, but he had had John  _ chipped _ . With his good hand, John gripped the thin polyester sheets of his bed. He’d kill him. If he ever got the chance to see him, John would just… Just-- he gritted his teeth, and for the first time in his life could fully, viscerally understand the phrase, ‘seeing red’. He’d kill him. He’d rip that trachea out of his smug little  _ throat _ . 

 

There was a knock at the door. Thankfully, the doctor deferred to John, who was resigned to his fate as it was. “Come in,” he called, sitting forward. It was the grey-haired officer, the one who was professional, if a little less witty. “You again.” John was almost surprised-- since when was omega testimony valued with the constabulary? How long had he been out? 

 

“I don’t think I had a chance to properly introduce myself,” the bloke started off, putting out his right hand for a shake. John took it, his own handshake as unforgiving as steel. “Er.” Clearly he was put off, “I’m Greg. Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. And you must be…” 

 

“John,” he answered carefully, omitting both his maiden and bonded name. Best leave that be for as long as he could. “I take it you’re here to discuss my connection with this whole crime syndicate bit?” 

 

Greg looked pleasantly surprised. “Well, yes, actually. Thankfully my cowor-- my, ah. My help has been in this facility’s lab, ascertaining the purpose of the, ah…” he gestured toward his shoulder. “Sherlock Holmes knows what he’s doing, even if he’s a prick with the victims, here.” 

 

_ Sherlock Holmes.  _ Oh. Jim had been--  _ oh.  _ No wonder Holmes had reminded John of his partner: seemed that they were cut from the same brilliant, sadistic cloth. “Right,” John replied, voice soft. He’d seen the dark-haired one on the telly before, with the bombings. Hell-- John narrowed his eyes, really looking at Greg Lestrade-- hadn’t John seen him too? “I take it you’re MI6, or…?”

 

“No, ah.” Greg rubbed the back of his neck, “The Yard, actually, partially in connection with someone…” He flapped his hand as if waving the thought away, “Someone else. Anyway, yes. We wanted to discuss your connection to a Jim Moriarty.” 

 

“This isn’t a good time to discuss this,” Iver interrupted, stepping in between John and Lestrade. “While I support your efforts in solving your case, we need to consider Mister… John’s health as priority number one. He’s only just come out of surgery an hour ago, and has considerable medication being delivered to him intravenously. Another time.” 

 

There was really no brooking argument, there, and John was grateful for it: he had avoided ambush, and he could simply sit back, rest up, and… Well. There was a remote and a telly, so he made do: he turned it on to BBC1, which was reporting a major bombing of two of London’s major hospitals. 

 

Jesus. Jim hadn’t-- no, he didn’t-- everyone in the room stared at the television, Lestrade stopped halfway through the door. In a stern voice, a newscaster read out, “At 3:07 in the afternoon, two bombs went off in the top floors of the Royal London Hospital and the University College London Hospital, respectively. Thankfully only the top floors have been affected, due to the structural soundness of both buildings, but there is no death toll as of now. We will be updating the situation as we are informed. Stay tuned with BBC1 News.” 

 

Jim didn’t. He couldn’t have. He didn’t. John turned to the Detective Inspector, horrified. “At what time, exactly, was this chip extracted from my shoulder?”

 

___

 

Jesus fucking Christ. John tried to sit forward, but his  _ fucking  _ shoulder wouldn’t bloody fucking work with him-- he took a deep breath, finally alone, and tried to collect himself. 

 

Jim wasn’t coming to get him, that much was certain. Hell, based on the detonation of the bomb, he might’ve thought John was dead. He was alone in this. No one was coming to help him. John watched the television, listening as the body counts skyrocketed into the high hundreds, and realised he had never felt more alone. 

 

All of the threats Jim had whispered into his ear had come to fruition. Hundreds of people had died, more were likely dying, and a significant part of London’s infrastructure was in shambles. John wanted nothing more than to curl into a ball and be left with his guilt, when an awful thought came to mind: there was nothing holding him back anymore. Everything awful had come through, and it wasn’t necessarily the end of the world, at least for him. The guilt would ravage him for years, definitely, but right now...

 

There was nothing holding him back anymore. 

 

John looked for a button to call a nurse, and, finding it, considered requesting a nurse to talk with Holmes and Lestrade. In a bit. Just… 

 

Alone and isolated beyond belief, John enjoyed a few moments of respite from all of this. He could be away from this facility, away from the politics and criminality of his situation, and just live a normal life. He could imagine himself working in a clinic, getting married, maybe even having a kid. Anything but this. 

 

He requested a nurse, and in turn accepted another interview with the Yard. 

 

Lestrade stepped in almost immediately, apologising for his partner’s tardiness. “It’s quite fine,” John answered with a wave of his good arm, “I’m sure you’re both busy as it is. Ah.” Where to start? A maudlin life story? No. If just for his pride’s sake, he omitted his own life story. “He lives in Kensington on Harrington Road, partway between Reese and Kendrick Mews; the penthouse flat. Gaudy little thing.” 

 

“You mean Moriarty?” Lestrade asked, shocked-- “He’s not-- how d’you know where he--” 

 

“Yes, I mean Moriarty. He’s likely gone and moved out, but that’s where I saw him last.” Knowing him, Jim had ordered the furniture and clothes out the moment John was out of Moran’s custody. The thought shouldn’t have made John smile; the place he’d made his home the last fifteen years, even if every decision, from design to use, was Jim’s… Jim would tear it all down in an instant. John had never felt more assured of a decision, sitting in front of the DI. 

 

“Right. I-- Thank you so much,” Lestrade started, just as Sherlock Holmes swanned in, pulling off his scarf. “Seems we’ve got an address from him.” 

 

Holmes narrowed his eyes. “What changed?” 

 

“Aside from the successful bombings of hospitals?” John asked, raising a brow-- did he not know? 

 

If Holmes didn’t, he didn’t show any sign of it. “With you, actually. You’re acting different from before. Did he play all his best cards?” 

 

John turned toward the… Detective, whatever he was, and looked him straight in the eye. “I’m sure he’s got some other threat out there just waiting,” John considered aloud, “But in the meantime I’d rather not have him free to use people as his plaything.” John clenched his right fist. He’d said it. There was no going back from this, was there? “I only know a few omega holding places in Europe, but that has to be a start.” Even if they’d just be chattel in an officially sanctioned human trade service, it was better than what Jim had them in now. 

 

___

 

Two hours. Two hours in his hospital bed, describing names, places, hotels, events-- with some careful omissions. John hardly had to share his rendezvous with business partners, or the outright torture he’d forced on Jim’s enemies. Doctor Iver watched him like a hawk, clearly looking for signs of exhaustion. Every few minutes she reminded the detectives, “You can’t trust this information fully, of course. He’s exhausted and drugged-- maybe it’d be better for you to come around another time, once he’s had his rest.” 

 

“I’m fine, thanks,” John responded incessantly, at one point rubbing his eyes. “Where were we? Wrapping up?”

 

“The Triad, I believe?” Greg answered, notepad out. Holmes only sat and stared. 

 

“Right. Well, I can’t give too much information there. I know they stayed at the Corinthia--” John remembered the ornate decor of their room, the room number in gold, but after that… “They were in 1509 between October third and the seventh.” 

 

“Did you enter their room?” Sherlock asked, voice low. Shit.  _ Shit.  _

 

“I did, yes.” 

 

“How long were you with them?” Holmes’s eyes flashed, and he leaned forward. John turned away, steeling himself. 

 

“...From the third to the seventh.” The shame was heavy in his chest.  

 

“Doing?” 

 

John bit his tongue. “I was administered Firestarter. What d’you think?”

 

“He tested positive for it,” Iver cut in quickly, picking up his file and rifling through it, “It couldn’t have been administered more than a month ago.”

 

“Firestarter?” Holmes asked, turning to Iver, “What does that--” 

 

“Alright, we’re done for the night,” Greg announced, cutting in. Thank Christ. John slumped in his bed, using his good hand to wipe at his face. The DI tugged at Sherlock’s arm, outright pulling him from the room. 

 

“John,” Iver spoke gently, placing one hand on John’s own, “You don’t have to sacrifice your health-- physical  _ or  _ mental-- for this. I want you to rest for the next few weeks, alright? We can have you placed back in your room with the others, but… Well, we’ll need to do further testing. Firestarter can be devastating to an omega’s cycle, especially considering the strain--” 

 

“I take it you don’t supply suppressants here, hm?” John responded with an exhausted smile. “I generally don’t do heats unless they’re chemically induced as it is.” 

 

___

 

It was late. After being transported to the facility, receiving surgery, and then finishing a long interview with the Yard, _plus_ the added hysterosalpingography, ensuring that, yes, he was still capable of being gravid. Lovely. It was ten at night, and John was knackered-- the lights had gone out an hour ago, only slivers of moonlight filtered in through the window, and he was surrounded by tranquil, lovely silence. Rare, given that he was in what was supposed to be a hospital. 

 

No nurses pattered through the hallways. There was no beeping of other heart monitors, no thick, laboured breaths echoing through the halls. It was as if he were the only patient in a state-of-the-art health centre. 

 

Christ. To think taxpayer money was going to this. 

 

Turning and gripping his IV stand, John stood up on shaking legs. His shoulder felt-- well, fine, though that might have been the medication. Carefully, he walked to the door. Curled his fingers ‘round the knob. 

 

Locked. Not even the facade of freedom, then. 

 

John settled back into bed, alone in the dark of the room.

 

___

 

John was moved into his new quarters during the wee hours of the morning, just across the hall from an inquisitive young omega who looked strangely familiar. Abby, maybe? 

 

Well, either way. John folded his meager set of clothes (a refreshing change from his old wardrobe, rococo and gaudy as hell), and put them away in a small set of drawers. This was his life now, until he was bought. 

 

Again. 

 

The thought was crushing. John turned away from his drawers, pacing. In some aspects, Jim had been an exceptional alpha. He allowed John to acquire a higher education, train in hand-to-hand and even firearm combat. He allowed John his own space and time to grow past adolescence and into someone with his own identity. A sense of pride. 

 

These kids, though-- shit, John had read the American and Saudi and Emirati and Chinese and Japanese newspapers. He’d heard of life outside Europe and Great Britain, where the scant omega population could live a normal life. Suppressants, heat facilities, legal protections for omegas-- humanity. He’d read the scathing exposés and studies on omega suicide rates in Germany, Belgium, France. Britain. The West’s greatest kept secret. 

 

The kids here didn’t have a chance. There might have been some sense of community here-- John didn’t know-- some sense of identity in here. But in the mansion of some aristocrat alpha, hidden away from the rest of humanity; treated like precious glass? 

 

Eighty-five percent. Eighty-five percent of the kids here wouldn’t make it a year in an alpha’s household. 

 

John ran his good hand through his hair, considering a shower, when there was a knock at his door. Was he supposed to let them in? John stood a moment, waiting for a repeat knock, when the knob turned. So that was how it was going to be. 

 

“It’ll be better for both of us if you consider waiting for me to respond,” John called, as Sherlock Holmes strode in, followed by several orderlies-- one with what looked like a syringe full of tranquilizer. John stepped back, looking between the group of them. Holmes seemed not to show any sign of having noticed the needle. 

 

“You’re being moved as it is, John, you can hardly expect me to bother with useless etiquette.” Holmes was removing his gloves, not even deigning to look at him. John wanted to punch him. 

 

“I’m sorry?”   
  
From his jacket pocket, Holmes produced a small pile of papers, rolled and crumpled. “The names and places of residence of every employee in every facility in Great Britain. This is only a fraction of it, being faxed to every single facility controlled by the Omega Ministry. It doesn’t take a genius to understand that this is highly coveted information-- you’re being moved.” 

 

“I'm sorry?” John started, shocked. Had Jim done this? “What's happened, now?” 

 

“Clearly Moriarty’s irked by your being in custody, and is threatening to take the whole of Britain down to have you out. Surprisingly obvious, really.” Holmes snapped his fingers as if John were a dog groveling at his feet. “Come on, now, let's be going.”

 

“Hold on.” John stood his ground, crossing his arms, “What exactly do you have to do with it?” He glared up at the detective, feet planted to the floor. 

 

“Well,” Holmes walked to John’s dresser, grabbing at random shirts and jeans, “We can’t expect you to stay in another facility, can we? You’re coming with me.”

 

“You can’t have possibly gotten clearance since-- when did that come out?” He was taking John’s shit, now? That had to be a record for gaining a license to an omega, let alone buying one out. “Hold on a moment, you  _ cannot-- _ ” 

 

“I can, actually,” Holmes dropped John’s clothes, the prick, and pulled out another card from his pocket-- embossed in gold, on thick plastic, was an omega license. “You’re being put into my custody, at least until we get to the bottom of this. I’ve a connection with an adequately prepared property in London staffed with private employees-- no conflict of interest there.”

 

Holmes bent down, picked up John’s pile of clothes, and waltzed out the door. “Jesus Christ, hold on a second!” John tentatively followed Holmes out, all the while keeping an eye on the attendant ready to tranq him. He didn’t need that again, certainly. With a silent nod from half the attendants, John raised a brow and followed Holmes out.  

 

“You cannot just take my shit and walk off, you realise,” John shouted, following him at a speed-walking pace, rolling his IV stand with him, before, well-- oh, fuck it. He raised his arm, and, as carefully as he could in his hurry, pulled out the needle, leaving it behind. Holmes hadn’t even stopped. “Oi! Arsehole!” Barefoot, John ran down the hall and tackled the sod, using his good arm to put him in a tight headlock. His left shoulder ached like hell even just lifting his arm to keep Holmes still, but, well. This had been coming.    
  


“Let’s get one thing clear,” he gritted out, wrenching the struggling detective to the side, “If we’re dealing with each other, then you’re going to be  _ respectful.  _ Are we clear?” 

 

Silence from Holmes. Fine. “Are we  _ clear _ ?” 

 

“Yes!” He choked out, stumbling away when he was released from John’s grip. 

 

“Excellent,” John answered, picking up his things and walking out of the damned place on his own. 

 

There was a car waiting for the both of them, it seemed, and Lestrade was standing just outside of it. Puffing on a cigarette, he watched what looked like a bunch of teens playing football near the building, kicking the ball about. John took a moment to admire the scene. Kids on their own, enjoying a day out. If it weren’t for the guards and attendants at the perimeter, John would’ve thought it was a normal, domestic scene. The children looked over to Lestrade and John, as if to ensure they were watching. Something in John’s chest hurt when the young omegas grinned and waved. “We should get going, shouldn’t we?” John turned to Lestrade, just as Holmes walked out. He only barely his cough.

 

“Need a cough drop?” John offered, all smiles. He’d choke the son of a bitch out again, if he had to. Holmes only shot a glare at him, before climbing into the car and slamming the door shut. 

  
  
  
  


 

 


End file.
